


madness that lingers

by FandomTrash24601



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Decisions, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Crying, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dissociation, Don't worry too much, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt swings wildly from being emotionally competent to constipated, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Hopeful Ending, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Men Crying, Mental Breakdown, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Ocean, Partial Nudity, Pre-Slash, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rain, Selkie Jaskier | Dandelion, Selkies, Sharing a Bed, Storms, Tenderness, Wet Clothing, Witcher Senses, emotional support witchers, hypothermia is a thing you guys don't do what Jaskier does, no beta we die like renfri, not as an apology they're just there, only a minor one, some justly deserved murder, thattaboy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: Nobody has any business being on the beach at this hour, but there someone is, sitting cross-legged below the tideline so every wave rushes up to soak their hips, their feet, their legs, and then sink back down with a sucking rush.Title from "King" by The Amazing Devil
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 185





	madness that lingers

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I get for listening to a ton of Celtic/Gaelic music recently, huh? Alright then.
> 
> Also, I've only watched the Netflix show and did a little research on both regular Wikipedia and the Witcher Wiki, so there are very likely inaccuracies of some sort within this, but I did my best.

Nobody has any business being on the beach at this hour, but there someone is, sitting cross-legged below the tideline so every wave rushes up to soak their hips, their feet, their legs, and then sink back down with a sucking rush. The moon is thin, obscured by clouds as a storm rolls up the horizon, so he can barely see that there’s a person there at all even with his enhanced senses. The wind doesn’t carry their scent to him. 

Thank goodness he thought to bring his sword, even if it was just a scouting mission to see if he can find any traces here of the creature that killed the alderman. Maybe this is it, although the form on the beach looks more like a proper person. He hates contracts where he has to sink his sword into a body not too different from his own, but it’ll pay well. The entire town had been shifty. They’re scared of it, whatever it is, and so nobody had offered him any useful information.

The cold wind shifts, whips back on Geralt to prickle sharply at every little bit of exposed skin. They’re unusually far north for this time of year, nearly in Creyden as the leaves start to turn, and Jaskier has been complaining for at least a few days now about the way that his nose has gone raw and numb from the number of icy gales rolling in from the sea. Geralt’s used to the cold, spending his winters in Kaer Morhen, but Jaskier normally spends his time further south in Oxenfurt. For all his whining, though, it’s his scent that’s carried by the breeze to meet Geralt’s numbing nose.

What the fuck is Jaskier doing, sitting in the frigid ocean on a frigid night? If he doesn’t die of hypothermia then some sort of creature will get him, and although Jaskier’s never had much self-preservation, Geralt hadn’t thought he was this stupid. Geralt could’ve sworn that the man had left with one of the maidens who had been swooning over him, but it’s clearly not so. Perhaps this is the aftermath of another cuckolding or fleeting heartbreak.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls, moving forward with great steps that sink into the sand. “What the hell are you sitting in the water for?”

He looks almost like he’s meditating, hands set so still on his soaking wet knees. Geralt’s able to see him better as he gets closer in the darkness, spine straight and his head fixed firmly forward. There’s no way that Jaskier would be able to see the distant horizon with his human eyes, which once again begs the question of what, exactly, he’s doing out here smelling like—Geralt frowns and takes another sniff. Misery, the scent is, so potent that it stings.

“Jaskier?”

He’s only feet away but Jaskier hasn’t made any move that suggests recognition. Geralt’s not sure that he’s even aware of his surroundings; he’s shaking badly, unceasing shudders that look more like some sort of fit. Something cold and heavy settles deep in Geralt’s gut. He kneels down with only inches separating the two of them. The ocean rushes up past them, icy water creeping into Geralt’s boots and soaking his feet, but it’s an annoyance he’s willing to endure when Jaskier is sitting looking so small and so lost. In the little light, Geralt can just barely make out that his lips have taken on a bluish tinge. His slow-blinking eyes are shiny with unshed tears.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs. His heart is beating too fast in his chest; Jaskier may be emotional but he’s loud and dramatic. He’s never like this. The awful, quiet stillness has settled over him like a disease, and Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess why. “Come on, let’s get back to the inn.”

At last, Jaskier speaks, although he’s shivering so hard that his teeth clack and his cold-stiffened lips are slow to move. “Want to stay here.”

“Why?” Geralt asks, baffled. Jaskier’s boots and breeches are completely drenched. They’ve got to be so cold that they sting against his skin, and he’s always so fussy about his comfort and his clothes. What’s keeping him here?

Jaskier’s head turns towards Geralt with an aching slowness. If he were in hysterics, Geralt could handle that. If he were flamboyantly insufferable, it would be fine. But his mouth is just barely downturned in the way of the truly, deeply hurt—the ones experiencing the kind of hurt that welds itself to the very soul—and the rest of his face doesn’t move when a tear tips off of Jaskier’s lashes to meander down his frozen cheek. The wind is only increasing in strength, the waves crashing more aggressively up the shore. Geralt’s hair is tied back to minimize the impact on his vision, but Jaskier’s hair is buffeted freely about. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Let me take you back to the inn,” Geralt says, well aware that he’s walking on eggshells. This territory is new and uncharted and painful, even to him. When a raindrop lands on Geralt’s cheek, he thinks for a moment that maybe he’s crying too. But then another falls, and another, and he reaches out to grab Jaskier’s cold-stiff hand in his and says, “Please.”

They sit there for a long time, just staring at each other. The rain switches from a sprinkle to a downpour with no warning and neither of them move. It would be impossible for a non-Witcher to tell that he’s crying. Even for a Witcher it’s difficult, what with the rain and the salty ocean so close, but tears smell sharper than ordinary saltwater. His face is still and his shiny eyes are fixed unseeingly on Geralt’s face. He looks like he’s just lost everything he ever loved. He appears almost spectral when lightning strikes close by and illuminates everything in perfect detail for one lingering half-moment, thunder shattering the beach.

“You don’t have to walk,” Geralt tells him. “I can carry you.”

Jaskier is silent and shivering and his hair is plastered to his forehead. It’s slick and nearly black, his eyes changed to liquid under the heavy fringe. They look dark without a source of light to illuminate their true shade. He’s so fucking gorgeous that it hurts to look at him, but Geralt’s used to that long-simmering hurt and shoves it to the back of his mind again now.

Slowly, like it’s painful, Jaskier moves his legs from their crossed position until they’re pulled up into a low triangle before him. Offering a grip. The ocean rises around them, and Geralt gets a handful of saltwater with Jaskier’s legs. One shiver wracks him so hard that he nearly topples from Geralt’s grasp before he can get his stiff arms wound around Geralt’s neck.

“What’s gotten into you?” Geralt asks, unable to do anything about the way that strands of his dripping hair have fallen in front of his eyes. “Do you have a death wish? Monsters aren’t all that can kill you.”

Jaskier drops his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, hot-salt tears dripping from him, and for a moment Geralt’s worried he’s been too harsh. He should’ve just kept his damn mouth shut; it’s clear that there’s something wrong with Jaskier.

“I want my coat,” he whispers.

“You’ve got your doublet on,” Geralt says, confused. “Do you mean your cloak? It’s just back at the inn; we can go get it right now.”

A sob bursts from Jaskier’s shiver-twitching chest, singular and muffled before it can truly reach the air. The fear in Geralt crystallizes anyways as Jaskier shakes his head miserably. His sadness is like syrup, leaking to coat Geralt. It’ll stick to him like syrup, too. He’ll be able to smell this sorrow for days.

“We’ll get you out of these wet clothes, get you in new ones and put you in front of a fire. It’ll be alright, Jaskier.”

“I’m never going to be warm again,” Jaskier sobs, unable to hold back the awful sorrow that has sunk itself into his bones. Geralt can barely smell Jaskier’s usual scent, the salt-and-rose warmth, beneath all the sour sadness. He thinks he might be panicking. They’ve known each other for nearly two decades, and in all of that time Jaskier’s never had any kind of fit remotely like this. If his medallion wasn’t perfectly still against his chest then he’d be certain that Jaskier had gone and gotten himself cursed somehow. “Oh, gods, I’m  _ so cold.” _

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says, the words sitting oddly in his mouth. When’s the last time he said anything like that? “It’s okay, Jask, I’ve got you.”

The roads have turned to muck by the time Geralt makes it back to the inn they’d rented a little room in, both of them soaked to the bone and their skin turned to ice. He can’t even feel bad about tracking mud all over the floor with Jaskier shivering and crying in his arms. Thankfully the innkeeper and his wife are kind ones, and when they spot the human in his arms their gazes soften with concern.

“What happened?” the innkeeper’s wife asked, following them to the room they’d rented.

“Don’t know. Found him on the beach.”

“Oh, the poor thing. I’ll fetch a basin of hot water, free of charge; I shan’t have him dying on my watch.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, trying to set Jaskier down on the floor in front of the fireplace. He just curls closer and cries harder. “Jask, please, I need to start the fire and get you out of your wet clothes. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

“I never—” Jaskier hiccups against him. “I never feel good! What’s the point in feeling better when I never feel good enough?” He dissolves into ugly sobs again, managing to wrap his legs around Geralt’s waist and holding tight. “Just wanna… Just wanna  _ go.” _

“Go where?” Geralt asks gently, giving up on the effort to get Jaskier out of his clothes. At least with their new position, Geralt can move one of his hands and light the fireplace.

“Just go! I don’t—”

“Hey, hey.” Geralt hushes him like he’s a spooked horse and feels sick with worry. “I’m sorry I asked. We can sit like this for a while longer, if you’d like.”

Jaskier is still sobbing when the innkeeper’s wife comes back to their room with a small basin of hot water. She seems surprised to find them still on the floor, man wrapped around Witcher. The sounds of Jaskier’s sobs are heartbreaking, especially when Geralt can tell that he’s trying hard to stop.

“There is fine,” Geralt says with a nod at the floor next to them.

“O’ course, Mister Witcher. If there’s anything else…”

Geralt tries to turn his head to look at Jaskier, but with Jaskier burrowed so close he just ends up trailing his nose through Jaskier’s icy wet hair.

“No,” he says, resisting a shiver of his own as his body registers that he had, in fact, just walked at least a mile in pouring, freezing rain. “I think we’re fine, thank you.”

Jaskier sobs and shivers and grips Geralt so tightly that he fears something will tear. He tries to curl even closer as the innkeeper’s wife leaves the room, like they could possibly be any closer together.

“You don’t have to let go of me completely,” Geralt says, worried by Jaskier’s body temperature, “but would you let me get you dressed in dry clothes?”

“Gimme—” Jaskier hiccups between pathetic, punched-out sounds. “Gimme—”

“We can wait until you collect yourself, if that’s what you want,” Geralt relents easily, hands running up and down Jaskier’s back. “I just don’t want you to get sick.”

“‘Cause I’d j—just...slow you— _ hic _ —down, right?”

Geralt sighs. “No,” he says.

“Don’t want me—” He sniffles. “—complaining?”

“That’s not it either.” Feeling defeated and exposed and chilly, Geralt turns his head and presses his mouth to the hair just above Jaskier’s ear, almost like a kiss. “Can’t I just want my friend to stay healthy?”

Jaskier laughs, sad and watery, into his neck. “‘S this what it took?”

“What’s going on?” Geralt urges. “Talk to me, Jask. That—Whatever that was, it wasn’t normal. I’m worried.”

“Maybe later,” Jaskier whispers. He’s not sobbing with his entire body anymore, which is a kind of victory.

“Okay. Later is fine.” He continues to stroke up and down Jaskier’s trembling back, not knowing what he’s doing. No one has ever come to him for comfort before. “Can I take off your doublet?”

“I guess.” Jaskier’s voice is barely audible, his mouth pressed into Geralt’s neck.

His chest feels tight as he gently works the doublet off, moving Jaskier’s limbs as necessary but placing them back around him once he’s done. The doublet is tossed aside; it’s completely drenched, and hits the floor with a wet slap.

One by one, Geralt gets Jaskier’s clothing items off of him. It’s almost like Jaskier is asleep, following orders with a distant lethargy and swaying badly when he has to sit up on his own. As soon as the chemise is off, he collapses back against Geralt’s chest. Not that Geralt would ever admit this, but there’s an anxiety tightening his chest as he pulls the boots and socks off of Jaskier’s limp feet.

“Can I take your pants off?” Geralt asks, fingers hovering above the laces.

“Mhmm.”

So the pants, too, are stripped from him. This takes a while, Jaskier being unsteady; one of Geralt’s hands end up firmly around his waist, his face almost buried in Jaskier’s side. In the end, Jaskier is no longer wrapped around Geralt but sitting sideways in his lap. He’s still shivering but it’s better than it had been, his crying shifted from tears to dry little noises.

Geralt glances down at Jaskier’s braies, clinging to his wet skin. He has to change too, but he’s not sure that Jaskier can bear to be let go of just yet. The poor man is still sniffling into the crook of Geralt’s neck, his entire body shaking.

“Can you take your braies off on your own? My clothes are wet too.”

Jaskier nods and slowly, slowly gets to his feet. He looks as if a hard breath might topple him over. In the time it takes him and his fumbling fingers to unselfconsciously strip off his braies, Geralt has fully stripped. They stand naked together, but the situation isn’t remotely arousing.

“Come on.” Geralt stoops to pick up the warm water and a clean rag, urging Jaskier closer. “Let me wipe you down.”

Jaskier sways, his arms folded and hunched in on himself, before leaning hard against Geralt. Had he not been a Witcher, they might have both gone toppling to the floor.

By the time Geralt has wiped them both down with warm water and dried them with a softer shirt, Jaskier has stopped crying completely. He’s still shivering a little, but nothing nearly as bad as it had been only a few minutes prior. What really scares Geralt, though, is that Jaskier is practically asleep on his feet. Half-lidded, glazed eyes watch without seeing as Geralt redresses both of them. He can’t even pull on his own braies.

“Alright, come on,” Geralt coaxes, wondering when he learned these skills. There’s no way he learned them from Vesemir or any other Witcher, that’s for sure. “Into bed.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, not even with a hum, just leans into Geralt and finds the strength to sling his arms up around Geralt’s waist.

“Can... If I pick you up, can you wrap yourself around me?”

He doesn’t reply to this, either, but his arms loosen a little around Geralt’s waist and he takes it as a yes. Jaskier miraculously has the strength to keep a hold on Geralt when he’s hoisted upward. Geralt actually hadn’t expected that, but it does allow him to set the fire burning brighter and lay their clothes out to dry in front of it with Jaskier clinging to him like a child.

Finally, he gets them both into bed. Jaskier heaves a great sigh and burrows his face into Geralt’s neck. When he wiggles closer, rubbing his body against Geralt’s, it’s torturous not to let his body respond. He can’t take advantage of Jaskier, can’t even think of doing so, not when he’s so fragile and needy. That would only make him the monster that plenty of the Continent’s common folk love to claim that he is.

“Go to sleep,” Geralt urges.

He listens to Jaskier’s heartbeat even out, feels his breaths come slower even as his body warms and his shivering ceases. The return to equilibrium is soothing to sense, and Geralt feels no guilt in using the metronome of Jaskier’s body to ease himself into sleep. Who’s going to know?

At some point in the night, they wake up. They’ve rolled about on the bed and found themselves in an unusual position upon their drift back to consciousness. Jaskier is on his back, still partially wrapped around Geralt, who’s laying on his front with his face buried in Jaskier’s stomach. Jaskier’s legs are wrapped under Geralt’s arms, his hands in Geralt’s hair. They lay silently for a while, not wanting to shatter the tranquility around them.

And it is tranquil. There’s a kind of silence in the air after Jaskier’s breakdown, almost like post-thunderstorm dampness. Outside the storm rages on, but in here they’re safe.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Geralt breathes into Jaskier’s stomach.

Jaskier’s fingers twitch and start to move, winding the white strands of his hair through delicate fingers. “Did you find a contract?”

“Yes. Something killed the alderman, they want me to see if I can hunt it down.”

_ “Don’t.” _ The word is ripped harshly from Jaskier’s mouth, and his fingers tighten in Geralt’s hair before relaxing. “Sorry. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“It was self-defense.”

Geralt reluctantly raises his head from Jaskier’s stomach to look at his face, but Jaskier has turned away. The fire still illuminates him, though, casting the grieved creases of his features in sharp relief. “How do you know?”

Jaskier is quiet for so long that Geralt’s actually not sure he’s going to speak again, but then he opens his mouth and murmurs, “She told me.”

“You saw it?” Geralt asks, alarmed. He pushes himself up on his elbows to better see Jaskier’s face. “What was it?”

_ “She _ was a selkie. Turned into a seal and swam away and everything. He’d—He’d taken her from the ocean. Stole her coat. But she found it, and she took it back, and when he tried to steal it a second time she killed him.”

“Is that why you were on the beach?”

Jaskier scowls and won’t look Geralt in the eyes. “‘S why I stayed so long. We ran into each other there.”

“Why were you on the beach in the first place? In the water, I mean.”

Instead of answering, Jaskier turns on his side in a clear dismissal. The lack of Jaskier’s warm legs around his torso is a loss that Geralt doesn’t bother to dwell on. Instead he follows Jaskier’s lead, curling up behind him in the now-tense silence. He ignores the anger swelling in his chest; he can’t ever find the right words, can he?

“Just don’t go after her,” Jaskier whispers. He’s drawn in on himself both physically and emotionally, not trusting Geralt with this.

It’s fine.

He doesn’t know what else he expected.

“I won’t,” Geralt promises, daring to press closer and sling his arm over Jaskier. “I just want to know what happened to you. It wasn’t normal.”

“Wasn’t that abnormal,” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt doesn’t press, and Jaskier is asleep before the minute’s out.

It takes Geralt a little longer, but soon enough he’s slipped into a blurry half-doze. Maybe it’s the storm. Maybe it’s Jaskier’s still-cool frame tucked so closely against his own. Maybe it’s a million other things, but Geralt’s dreams are feverish despite his lack of illness.

Jaskier’s standing on a cliff face, arms spread like he wants to greet the buffeting wind. Geralt is too far away to reach him in time even at a sprint, and watches helplessly as Jaskier topples forward off of the bluffs into water broken up by sharp, sky-reaching spires of stone. He thinks he screams as Jaskier disappears from his sight, the long grass tangling around his feet like a sentient organism to slow his process.

“No,” he gasps as he reaches the edge of the cliff. “No.”

There’s nothing in the wine-dark water below, churning white where it crashes off of the spires and the cliff itself. No doublet, no lute, no body. It’s like he was never there at all.

“What are we looking for?” Jaskier asks, suddenly pressed against his side. But he’s cold and soaking wet, a threatening force in the face of the clouds so dark they almost appear blue in shade. The sunshine that Geralt associates with Jaskier is gone.

So, too, is Jaskier, because it’s not actually him kneeling at the cliff’s edge; his eyes are a liquid black instead of their usual blue, his hair slicked back meticulously away from his face. Even when he smiles, his teeth are sharp-looking things. Around his shoulders is draped a long cloak, big enough to pool around Jaskier’s feet and drape off the edge of the cliff. It looks like some kind of fur, dark gray dappled with spots of lighter gray, and where it drapes from him it fits like a second skin. There are no clasps that Geralt can see.

“Where did you go?” Geralt asks, his heart still pounding human-fast.

Jaskier laughs. “Home. Want me to show you?”

And he pushes Geralt off of the cliff.

Geralt wakes in the way of Witchers; not with a noisy lungful of air, but with a quiet tensing and instant alertness. The storm is over. It’s morning. Jaskier is awake and out of bed, determining whether their laundry is dry enough yet or not, and hasn’t yet noticed that Geralt’s awake if the mournful humming is anything to go by. The fire is almost out. The blanket has tangled itself tightly around Geralt’s legs.

He stares at the back of Jaskier’s head and thinks through everything with the lens of both a friend and a Witcher. So many little details, so many dismissed “quirks.” He’s been so stupid. How has he made it this long without getting himself killed?

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier says, abruptly ceasing his humming. The cheer in his voice is forced, painfully so. It’s not even a good try. “Good morning. About last night, I’m terribly sorry; I really don’t know what got into me. Perhaps there’s truth in the claim that the sea does something to the mind, although I’d not like to—”

“Where’s your coat?” Geralt blurts.

Jaskier freezes, just for a moment, and grabs his doublet. “Right here, of course. Don’t you remember peeling it from my frozen skin last night? Although if you’ve misspoken and are talking about my cloak, I don’t actually know where it is right this minute. I can—”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt says, softer this time. “Your real coat—the one you were talking about last night. The one that was taken from you.”

Jaskier is very silent and very still for a very long time, and then he sits down and begins to cry again. Geralt kind of wants to throw up; it hadn’t been his intention to bring Jaskier back to tears. It had been the opposite of his intentions, actually.

“Lettenhove,” Jaskier hiccups, wiping away tears with the palms of his hand like a small child. “My—My father, he—”

“I don’t need to know the details.” He detangles himself and gets out of bed, tossing their clothes in a bag regardless of their state of dampness. “Come on, then.”

“Come on...to where?” The tears aren’t as bad as last night, and are already dying down although Jaskier’s eyes are going to be red for a while. He watches Geralt move with bleary, unfocused eyes. Geralt doesn’t think he’s imagining the way that they glimmer with hope.

“To Lettenhove.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this! Sometimes you need to take your own stress out on your favorite fictional faves to cope, you know? Anyways, let me know what you thought!


End file.
